


Please Stick With Me, Steve Rogers

by KayGryffin



Series: Stuck Together [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Iron Man - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: All-Knowing Rhodey, Anxiety, Blow Jobs, Bottom Steve Rogers, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Spoilers, December 16 1991, Gay Male Character, Gay Sex, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Peter Parker, M/M, Making of a Superfamily, Panic Attacks, Parent Steve Rogers, Parent Tony Stark, Protective Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers Feels, Superfamily, Superfamily (Marvel), Tony Feels, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Still Has Arc Reactor, Tony Stark has Anxiety, Tony-centric, Top Tony Stark, overprotective Peter, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-19 18:19:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9453992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KayGryffin/pseuds/KayGryffin
Summary: Steve stands awkwardly at the doorway, as if he must be invited in so that he may enter.“Are you a secret vampire, Steve?” Tony asks, eyebrow raised to mask the worry.Steve smiles a bit. “No,” he says, shaking his head, “Just not quite sure what’s supposed to happen next is all.”“What happens next?” he echoes.Steve shifts a bit, obviously embarrassed. “I’m not an idiot,” Steve mumbles, “I’m just not sure of the… the protocol of what’s supposed to happen.”He can’t help but parrot right back the word, “Protocol?”, not as so much confused as he is amused now, because he can’t help but imagine them drafting a battle plan for sex.---It's been over a month since the incident with the Mandarin, and Tony couldn't be happier now, with his newfound relationship with Steve and the loving, paternal relationship he has with his son - but a small part of him (maybe, admittedly, not very small at all) can't ignore the sense of crippling doubt to the durability of their relationship, especially given the kind of man he knows himself to be.





	1. Don't Leave Me All Alone, Steve Rogers

When Steve tells him they need to talk, Tony’s first reaction is to assume he’s messed everything up.

It’s a result of his upbringing, his therapist told him often, that he’ll always move to blame himself rather than others, even if the fault may not even be with him; something that would only change if he continued to try to fight through his issues, but since he’d stopped going to therapy, the self-blame didn’t exactly go away like his therapist would’ve liked, so he’s helpless in the face of the crippling guilt that threatens to seize at his throat, the clenching tight and relentless. He doesn’t listen to much else after Steve says the words, the ringing in his ears loud, pinging as he struggles to figure out where exactly he’s gone wrong, because in his mind, there’s no way that Steve could’ve messed up—it has to be him, hasn’t it, it’s got to be, because Steve’s nothing short but damned perfect and he’s the one who’s got to have screwed up, hasn’t he? He has to have done something to upset Steve, to warrant this ‘talk’, which past experiences has taught him to be less of a back-and-forth conversation and more of a rant of all the ways that he’s messed everything up.

He tries to think of something that he could’ve done to make Steve so unhappy in the past month or so they’ve been ‘together’, if you could really call it together when they haven’t gone out on any dates, really; they mostly spend their time watching movies with Peter, doing homework with Peter, playing video games with Peter, supporting Peter and occasionally making out on the sofa when Peter’s asleep or otherwise absent (not as often as he’d like, but Peter’s happiness comes way before his own)—is it maybe because it’s been six weeks and they haven’t had sex? Steve doesn’t strike him as the kind of person to get annoyed or even mad at something like that, but neither did Pepper, and it did get to her to a degree, but it’s not something he actively thinks about anymore—he’s not exactly in the prime of his youth, and he’s definitely not in a frame of mind anymore where sex makes the connection. He connects with Steve in different ways, ways that satisfy him enough—but what about Steve? Steve may be older, but physically, he’s young, and isn’t that what all young people want nowadays—sex?

He feels entirely selfish now that he’s thought of it. He’s sought enough pleasure for himself but not enough for Steve, he’s realizing—no wonder Steve’s mad at him. No wonder they may break up (if they can even do that); Steve’s finally realized what a selfish being he’s gotten himself involved with, finally realized that he can do entirely better than Tony and his baggage and his inability to keep a good thing going, and that’s good for Steve, he tells himself, good that Steve now knows he can do better, even though it rips his heart to shreds to try and imagine Steve with anyone else but him.

He can’t really quantify the length of time he’s been in love with Steve. He imagines it started with a childhood crush, his father often covering his walls with posters of the hero, trying to get his son to admire the hero as much as he did, which worked to an extent, if Tony’s rampant fantasies at ages twelve to twenty-three of being fucked by Captain America could count as part of Howard’s goal of admiration. For a while, he tried to deny that any part of him was attracted to other men, focusing instead on the equally existent attraction he possessed to the opposite sex; in part a result of the publicity of his past sexual encounters and of the falling-out between him and a college boyfriend who couldn’t handle Tony’s fast lifestyle. Steve’s the first boyfriend (if he’s that) that he’s had in over twenty years, and he loves him more now than he thought he did when he was younger. It’s probably because their connection was that of actuality now, not of fantasy; strengthened by the closeness of their friendship and their shared love for Peter, and so held more resolutely in Tony’s mind.

“And do you not think he feels the same way?” Rhodey asks, brow furrowing. The image freezes for the barest of an instant, and Tony feels inclined to remind the other that if he’d taken the Starkphone he’s been offering, he wouldn’t have to deal with the crap connectivity he’s experiencing. Rhodey simply rolls his eyes and reiterates his question.

It’s always been tough, having his best friend almost always hundreds upon thousands upon damn near _millions_ of miles away when he needs him (which is practically _always_ ), but he figures that he knew what he was signing up for with the former ROTC student that Rhodey was back in the day. Rhodey does his best to make sure that they don’t fall out of touch, randomly messaging him to check up, answering the video calls whenever he can, which is practically all the damn time despite how annoying Tony finds the connectivity problems that so easily can be rectified by simply a change in devices.

Tony sighs, rubbing his nose while leaning back in his chair. “I dunno. I guess?” he says, shrugging helplessly, “I wanna hope so.”

“Well, what reason do you have to believe that he _doesn’t_?” Rhodey asks, arching a brow, “To the best of my knowledge, Steve hasn’t done anything to show that he’s not on the same page as you, but then again, my knowledge is based on what you tell me, which should be everything so I know all the details before I attempt killing a national hero, Tones.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “You couldn’t kill him if you tried,” he reminds him.

“He’s just a super soldier, Tones,” Rhodey argues, as if _being_ a super soldier is no big deal at all, “Bullets work the same on him that they do you or me, give or take the amount of blood lost and all. I reckon a good few shots to the right places should be good enough—namely the head and the lungs.”

“It’s scary, how much thought you’re putting in to killing Captain America,” Tony tells him.

“I’m a soldier,” Rhodey reminds Tony, “It’s part of the package. Now answer the question—don’t bother trying to pretend you don’t know what one, or I swear, I’m getting in the suit to come over there and kick your ass.”

“Which one?” Tony asks, “Iron Jackass or War Machine Badass?” Rhodey doesn’t dignify it with a response—simply narrowed eyes and a dangerously uttered _Tony._

Tony shrugs again. “I dunno,” he says with a sigh, “We haven’t slept together yet, so I figure—oh, _stop_ it, you big baby, you _know_ how much of a virgin I’m not, _do not make that face_ , don’t try to play dumb; you have one too many Masters degrees to play dumb—I figure that Steve might not be happy about that.”

Rhodey coughs dryly. “I don’t imagine Steve to be the kind to get mad over something like that,” he says, “and besides, have you two even been a thing long enough to have sex?”

Tony wrinkles his brow. “Six weeks, give or take. Do normal people wait that long to have sex?” he asks.

“Depending on the couple,” Rhodey says with a shrug, “I was once with a girl who refused to give it up until three years into the relationship.”

Tony grins. “Ah, Sydney. I remember her. She was such a twat.”

“Besides the point,” Rhodey sighs, “I don’t think Steve’s the kind to let something like that get to him. All he said was that he wanted to talk, right? It doesn’t necessarily mean anything’s wrong.”

Tony frowns, “I’ve never heard anyone tell me that and have it end positively, Rhodey. It’s got to be bad. I did something, I know it.”

“Why can’t it be _him_ who’s done something?” Rhodey tries, “You can’t always be to blame. Maybe he’s done something and he’s trying to come clean to you the best he can.”

Tony shakes his head. “Steve would just tell me,” he says with conviction, knowing every word as he says them to be true, “He’s not that kind of guy.”

Rhodey sighs, rubbing his forehead. “He’s right, then. You guys do need to talk,” he says, exasperated, “Because you _are_ doing something wrong.” Tony’s breath nearly stops dead in his chest, but before his anxiety can take over, Rhodey continues, “You have too romanticized an ideal about Steve and the way he handles things. You have this idea that Steve’s damn near infallibly perfect, and it’s unrealistic. You’d rather blame yourself than blame Steve, and that is something you two need to discuss.” He gives Tony a look. “I’ve told you this back when you were dating that stupid pedophilic meathead back in college and I’ll tell you again: relationships are a two-way street, Tones, and both parties are fully capable of creating a wrong; it’s not entirely the burden of yours to carry. You and Steve need to work on your communication skills with each other, because you’re in the same chapter, but definitely not on the same page.”

Tony frowns. “We are,” he argues, “We always are.”

“Yeah, when it comes to Peter,” Rhodey agrees, “But that’s a different type of relationship you two share when it comes to him. Your focuses are entirely different there, just like your focuses are different when you’re Avengers. It’s all entirely different, no matter how much they overlap. With Peter, your focuses are on Peter’s needs, on Peter’s wellbeing; and when you’re out in the field, your focuses are on protecting those in the line of fire and fulfilling the mission requirements. When you two are _just_ Steve and Tony, your focuses should be on not only each other, but the needs of yourself to communicate them, and from what you’re telling me, I’m guessing you guys only do about half of that.” Rhodey smiles softly now. “You two just need to discuss what the other needs to give each other what you two want. That’s all you need to do.”

Tony sighs shakily, still unsettled from Rhodey telling him he’s done wrong, but nowhere near about to freak out like he could’ve. “You say it like it’s easy,” he says.

Rhodey nods. “It’s not,” he agrees, “But it still needs to happen.”

And Tony just can’t help the fact that he kind of wants to punch Rhodey, but it’s probably because he knows that the man’s right, though he himself has no idea how to properly go about communicating his wants and desires, considering he’s been taught all his life that what he wants wasn’t of great importance. Whatever Steve wanted to discuss, he’s realizing, he’s going to need to be able to communicate what he wants in return, or what he wants at all, because he’s fully aware that he’s not doing it currently.

They wait until Peter passes out, which isn’t hard because Peter’s worked himself into a tizzy about the robot as the competition is within the next few weeks, so when he nearly face-plants into his hot bowl of tikka masala during the team dinner for the fourth time, Tony makes a soft suggestion to the boy that he possibly venture into going off to bed. He argues, but it’s to be expected, Tony figures, because Clint’s promised to show him how to get through Banjo-Kazooie and the old game is one of Peter’s new obsessions, but in the end, he relents, possibly because he’s been nodding off all throughout the dinner, much to the amusement to the entirety of the team, particularly Tony himself, who finds the face Peter makes when he’s about to fall asleep utterly _adorable_ and keeps taking pictures.

Steve sits next to him all throughout the dinner, smiling and laughing like nothing’s wrong, and so Tony does his best to follow suit, laughing even though he kind of wants throw up, he’s so nervous and anxious about the idea of having a ‘talk’ with Steve. He’s trembling and sweating and he can’t bring himself to take a bite to eat, which Steve doesn’t seem to notice even with his arm around Tony’s shoulders, warm and heavy and safe and threatening. He’s still convinced that Rhodey’s kind of wrong in a small way, that there’s something he’s done wrong that’s a big deal, and that Steve is just going to leave him for someone more fitting of a person like him: perfect and unbroken like Tony himself isn’t.

Tony’s spent a good percentage of his life comparing himself to the greatness of Steve Rogers, and he’s come to a decision that compared to Steve, he’s but a smear of shit on the wall. Steve’s a paragon of all that’s good and right in this world, whereas he’s just some fucking murderer with a debt to pay to society. When Steve was a kid, he was fighting bullies and standing up for what was right, whereas when he was a kid, he was learning how to kill a lot of people efficiently, and he could try to make up for all those lives he’s taken all of his life, but he knows that it’ll do little to change that he’s one of the worst. It makes him fit to protect others, he figures, having been a part of those who did bad and knowing, for the most part, how those on the side of evil operates, but no matter how many people he saves, he’ll never be able to make up for all those he’s stolen—and that’s just fact to him, not a belief; but his honest opinion about his own self-worth. He’s a bad guy trying to do good things, whereas Steve’s an honest-to-mythical-man-in-the-sky good guy _doing_ good things. It’s simple to him; black and white, and he believes he deserves him less and less every passing day.

He can’t help but think, in moments like these, about his Aunt Pegs, about her stories of Captain America, the ones he could never quite reconcile to be true because unlike his dad’s, which was all about the feats and triumphs of the great war hero, his godmother’s speak of an awkward kid with his foot perpetually in his mouth, who kind of _found_ himself in the position of greatness and didn’t know what else to do but lead as best as he can, who couldn’t dance and didn’t know what fondue was and couldn’t run very fast or do many pushups; someone who sounded more human than Tony could handle. Her stories are similar to the Steve he knows now, who eats a cheesecake like it’s otherwise going to expire in the next twenty seconds, who cuddles Peter whenever the boy wants despite the fact that he’s a bit too old to cuddle with a parent, who refuses to get medical treatment even when he’s been shot three times in the side because he’s afraid of needing stitches (for example), who has this way of awkward bopping his head to the beat of a good song—the Steve that Tony believes to be the most perfect being he’s ever met, who’s as strong and courageous and kind and as fierce as the man his dad used to describe. Everything his godmother and his father ever told him of made for a good man, who he loves with far too much of his being, the bits of his heart leftover from the majority Peter claims going straight to the big blond heroic doofus.

“Tony?” Steve says carefully.

He blinks. He’s not sure when exactly he lost focus like that.

They sit in the living room of Tony’s flat, Peter sleeping just down the hall, the television off and phones tucked away so they can have the talk that Steve desired. Steve spends most of his time in this flat, verging on just simply moving in due to the ease it would provide on their lives, since the only time they’re separate anymore is when Steve goes back to his floor to sleep and wash up only to return back to here. Some of his drawings have begun to migrate into the space, populating a few frames around the apartment, and the first time Steve saw one, he nearly choked Tony out with the hug he gave him. It was kind of funny, only because Steve actually hates seeing his own art but appreciated it so much that Tony found enough importance in them to hang them up, and every time he sees one he both grimaces and smiles.

“I’m here,” Tony says, nodding, “Totally here.”

He looks concerned. “Do you want to do this tomorrow? You look out of it.”

He shakes his head rapidly. “No,” he says, maybe a bit too harshly, so he tries to settle himself down, forcing himself to explain quietly, “If we wait, it’s just going to make it worse on me, so for the sake of my ongoing sanity, we should probably get this over with.”

Steve’s eyes widen just a bit. “I didn’t mean to make you anxious,” Steve says, swallowing, “I just…” He looks away now, “I just didn’t know how to bring this up. What I needed to say, I mean. I guess.” Tony frowns. He’s not sure why Steve looks so nervous, but he knows that it can’t be good.

“Just tell me,” Tony encourages, though he can’t fathom why he does such a thing because it’s only just going to hurt when Steve tells him that he wants out.

Steve looks at him with a concerning amount of fear in his eyes, or at least Tony _thinks_ it’s fear—he can’t imagine what of, though. Hurting his feelings? It seems unlikely.

“You won’t hate me?” Steve asks quietly.

Tony’s confused, but at the same time, he’s beginning to content himself with the prospect that Steve’s come to his senses.

“I don’t think it’s possible,” is the response he gives, and it’s entirely the truth, even though it hurts like nothing else can. The idea that he’s done something wrong is beginning to rip through him, bit by bit, causing his empty stomach to turn to lead, weighing him down as if he’s got no choice but to hear how much Steve hates him, how much he abhors wanting to be with him, how much he wants to be apart from him, how much he—

“Hydra killed your parents,” Steve blurts out.

—what?


	2. Tell Me It Ain't True, Steve Rogers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The weight of the truth bears down on the unknowing innocent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: panic attack

“What?” Tony gasps out, confused, the pull of gravity feeling a bit lighter as the lead seemingly is shaved away. He can’t have heard that; he must be dreaming. Steve pulled him here to break up with him, not to tell him this. Maybe it’s some sort of way to lessen the blow of the end of their time together? Tony shoots the idea down instantly, looking carefully at Steve’s face. The other man looks so scared, so terrified; looking at Tony as if afraid that he was going to hit him for his lies, because it can’t be the truth, can it? His dad had a heart attack. That was what he was told. Howard Stark, the great Howard Stark, the god of weapons manufacturing and science itself, died a regular death like the regular man he secretly was, a heart attack causing him to lose control of the wheel and the crash taking from Tony not only his father, but his mother too, and it was tragic but it was _that_ , it had to be, because it just _had_ to be. He’d spent _years_ trying to come to terms with the fact that it was _that_ , and not that Howard’s death wasn’t just some tragic accident, that he didn’t lose his _Mom_ because of an accident.

It’s not the case, Steve tells him, unwitting of the turmoil Tony’s suffering. Howard was targeted by Hydra after digging too far into the pasts of his ( _his_?) operatives within SHIELD, killed for knowing far more than what Hydra was comfortable knowing, as far as Steve knows, his mother but mere collateral damage. The accident wasn’t as so much an accident as it was an execution, done on that deserted road from the city back to their estate to minimize witnesses. According to Steve, Howard was on his way home with valuable information that Hydra had been meaning to attain, and so, they took the time to strike—take out Howard Stark and gain the information they wanted. He was supposed to be alone.

 _He was supposed to be alone_.

 _He_ was supposed to go with them. They’d apparently been planning on going to dinner at their favorite restaurant to celebrate their anniversary, and since for once Tony was home for the holidays, Tony was supposed to come with, but he’d refused outright—he didn’t want to spend his holiday break with Howard any more than necessary, not wishing for the night to end in some lecture about how great he wasn’t or for his mother to wipe tomato sauce from the corner of his mouth like he was five again. His parents couldn’t reconcile that he’d grown up, just like he couldn’t reconcile that he still needed them. He’d brushed both of them off, and though Howard was a bit annoyed and his mother frustrated, they didn’t fight it. His mom even promised to bring him home some pasta and some cake—tres leches from the Spanish bakery down the street from the restaurant, specifically, because it was his absolute _favorite_ cake _anywhere_. And what had he done, instead of thanking her and telling her goodbye or even hugging her like she’d wanted?

He’d rolled his eyes, turned around, and kept playing that _fucking grand piano_ , the one he destroyed with a piece of 3-foot steel tube stock his dad had left lying around the workshop while working on another fucking gun.

And now here he was, after years of trying to reconcile that it was nothing but some sort of freak occurrence, listening to his _boyfriend_ share that it was a fucking _hit_ and he was going to lose them that night even if he had gone.

He’d thought up these scenarios, ideas of how he could’ve saved them if he had been there, because Mom didn’t know how to drive, so he pictured himself leaping to the rescue when Dad clenches at his chest and lets go of the wheel, veering them out of the way in time to avoid hitting that tree. Fantasies of how he could’ve saved them both, how he could’ve still had his mother’s kind words and his father’s constant pushing, fantasies now being ripped to shreds right in front of him because they could’ve never been true; there would’ve been no saving either of them because he would’ve just been killed with them instead, and in that moment, all he can think is how much he’d preferred that to knowing that the story he’s believed for over twenty years has been a complete and utter _lie_.

Dimly, he can hear Steve saying his name, but he’s not paying too much attention, his footsteps unsteady and his eyes unfocused, blindly grabbing at the things around him as he collapses, trying to break the fall, his breath to ragged and his heartbeat too loud, feeling the weight of his weakness, clawing at his chest. His fingernails scrape at the surface of the arc reactor, and he can’t help but want to rip it out of his fucking chest and just let the shrapnel _do it_ , just make it all end, because he’s just tired, he’s tired of his life just throwing shit at him, tired of this being his lot in life, having things taken and taken and taken when he’s done nothing more than try to do the right thing for other people.

Warm hands grab at his cheeks, and he can barely hear Steve’s deep voice as he tries to talk to him; his heartbeat’s so loud. Tony’s dimly aware that he’s having a panic attack, but it feels worse than that, his heart hurts so damned _much_ , because he hates it, he hates himself, he hates the world, he hates Hydra and he hates the past for how much it affects him still, for how much everything affects him. He wants to be a different person, wants to be anyone else besides himself, because what he is a fucking idiot who deserves nothing good, apparently, and it’s just _not right_ , it’s _not fair_ , and he just can’t take it anymore, he decides, grabbing at the arc reactor with shaking hands, twisting it in his chest to get it to release.

Steve stops him right in the nick of time, however, placing one heavy hand atop his to keep it from moving, pressing it flat against the fabric of Tony’s all-too-scratchy t-shirt. He’s forgotten to do laundry again (more aptly, he’s forgotten which button makes the drum spin again), so all he’s got are old shirts from his alma matter and pants that the odor of oil doesn’t seem to desire to leave, and somehow knowing he’s wearing an MIT shirt makes it worse because the semester started _not even three whole weeks after the crash and Tony went back right after the funeral and never got to think about it again_ and he just wants right now to _scream_ because the world’s just against him and he can’t understand why everything has managed to turn out this way.

Steve’s singing to him again, he’s dimly aware, but he doesn’t want to hear the song; he just wants to scream until his lungs give out, but his voice doesn’t seem to want to work. It’s broken, just like the rest of him is, like he always is, and it’s just his lot in life, isn’t it, to be the one who has to take the beating, who’s not allowed even to keep the solace of his own mother’s death. It’s broken, he’s broken, and he just keeps breaking into smaller and smaller little bits of himself with every breath he dares to take _because he’s the almighty shit stain of the world and he deserves nothing less than this_ ; this is what he’s earned, the pain of knowing just how powerless he really and truly is.

There are arms wrapped around him, arms that he’s sure are Steve’s, and he struggles against them blindly, not wanting to infect the goodness that is Steve Rogers with the plague he somehow internally manifests. He doesn’t want to touch Steve and ruin him. He doesn’t want to touch Steve and destroy him. He deserves better. He deserves far more than some broken little man like Tony. He deserves someone with light in their heart and belief in their soul, and Tony has neither. All he has is a dumb, misplaced sense of hope that consistently lets him down and reminds him just what kind of life he’s been living, what kind of life he will always be living. He’s been living a dream. A fantasy. The time has come, apparently, for him to wake the hell up—to face his reality. He’s as weak a man now as he was in the December of 1991. He’s a man incapable of protecting the ones he loves—his mother, his father, Anna, Jarvis, Aunt Peggy, Yinsen, Obie, Pepper—and it’s not a list he wants to add another name to, because he can’t bear to see the name _Steve_ on there, can’t fathom the prospect of seeing _Rhodey_ attached to it, can’t handle the possibility of seeing _Bruce_ , or _Natasha_ , _Thor,_ or _Clint_ —and he especially, undoubtedly, irrevocably, can’t take even the mere _idea_ of seeing _Peter_.

He shoves at Steve as hard as he can and begs him to let go. _For your own sake, Steve, please let me go,_ is what he sobs, because he can’t take it, can’t take losing him because he let himself come to close to what he can’t have—to what he’s just not supposed to have.

Steve only holds him tighter.

His fight gradually breaks down as he grows tired, as the intensity of his emotions tapers off, leaving him exhausted and malleable, quietly begging to be let go, his face pressed against Steve’s oversized chest, his arms limp at his sides. His entire body is cradled into Steve’s lap, their legs tangled together, Steve’s arms wrapped like steel bonds around his torso. The man holds him so tight he’s barely able to breathe, but other than the begging, Tony can’t make him release him whatsoever. He feels far too heavy, and far too cold, to put up any really fight, which he knows instinctively that, without his suit, would be a pointless venture anyways in the face of Steve’s ridiculous stubborn nature, which apparently acts against what’s good for him.

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispers to him quietly, “I’m so sorry.”

Tony doesn’t want the apology. Sorry means nothing. What he wants is to keep Steve safe and he can’t do that if Steve refuses to leave him.

Steve only holds him tighter when he says that.

“No,” he says with a shuddering breath, “No way in fucking _hell_ am I doing that. I know what you’re doing, and I’m not going to let you do it.”

Tony shakes his head slowly, “You have no idea, Steve.”

“ _You have no idea, Tony._ ” He sounds angry when he responds, which makes Tony flinch, so when he speaks next, he’s audibly trying to sound calmer. “I was doing the same thing to you, Tony, don’t you see that? I was doing the _exact_ same thing.” Tony begins to shake his head—it’s a lie, it’s all just a lie, but Steve continues arguing, “I was so _terrified,_ Tony, of being forced to lose you. You mean so much to me, even more than what you meant to me just a few weeks ago, and every day the idea of you getting hurt because of _me_ and my selfishness just hurts so much _more_ , especially because of Peter and the idea of making _Peter_ lose you.”

“You’re both safer without me,” Tony quietly sobs.

“That’s not your decision to make, Tony,” growls Steve, “It’s ours. You can’t make us stop loving you, and you’ll only hurt us if you push us away, and as bad as we’ll feel, you’ll feel it all ten times harder. So don’t push us away. Don’t push _me_ away. Stop being selfless for once in your life, Tony Stark, and stay right here with me. If you leave me, I’ll kick your ass into the middle of next week, so help me God.”

“But—”

“ _No_ ,” orders Steve, “It’s not your burden. It’s not your fault. So stop taking on the weight of it all for once and let me shoulder the rest. Don’t do it all by yourself.” He holds Tony just a bit tighter as the man begins to be racked by tears, “And please don’t leave me.”

They end up in Tony’s bed. It’s the first time, since that night on the couch, that they sleep side by side, and it’s the first time ever that it’s in a bedroom. As far as Tony knows, Steve hasn’t seen as so much as an inch of the room, which is almost sterile in its order and cleanliness, so the first thing he notes on is how much it’s in an apparently dire need of at least one photo on the wall. Tony wakes up covered in blankets he hadn’t even been aware he possessed, including one of a more human variety in the form of a Peter draped over him. It’s a bit concerning, only because standardly, Tony’s not the heaviest of sleepers, and Peter’s not the lightest of children, but somehow the boy managed not to disturb his sleep and cuddle the crap out of him with his octopus-esque tendencies.

Peter’s face is buried into the crook of his neck, so he feels more than sees the drool puddle the boy’s leaving on his collarbone, which isn’t so much gross as it is endearing, which he hopes is just par for the parenting course, his hair tickling at Tony’s jaw and ear. His fingers clench tightly at Tony’s arm and torso, as if he’s trying to hold on for dear life, which he figures isn’t all too inaccurate; his legs on either side of Tony’s thighs, ankles clasped together underneath his shins. He’s wrapped them both up in the old blanket he stole, and if he’s being entirely honest, smelling it kind of hurts because the whole point of him taking it from the old estate was to be able to smell the tobacco and vanilla that seems to be embedded still into its fibers after all these years, now mingling in with the ever-present scent of the cheap orange-scented bargain soap from the dollar store by Peter’s school, a pleasant but annoying scent as it’s a source of frustration for him, because Peter still insists upon using despite the fact that Tony can afford a product that doesn’t give his kid the occasional rash.

He’s overwarm, but he’s not exactly upset about it, wrapping his arms around the boy as best as he can when trapped under his vice-like grip, pulling him in even closer than before. He’s never been entirely fond of physical displays of affection (or any display of affection, save for nicknames), but Peter’s been all too happy to force him into obligation. He’ll take it while he can, he figures—there’ll come a day when Peter will shy away from the idea of cuddling with his parent, and he knows that he’ll miss it. Peter lets out a small hum of contentment, burrowing his face in a bit closer (and smearing the puddle of drool across his skin, much to his disgust), and lessening his deathgrip on Tony’s arm, much to his relief, though he’s pretty sure he’s going to developing bruises in the shape of Peter’s skinny fingers.

A soft chuckle to his right alerts him to the presence that Peter made him so easily forget. Steve’s wide awake, and from the looks of things, he has been so for a while, watching the two of them with an almost terrifying fondness. Steve looks at them as if they’re his entire world, and it’s a scary responsibility he instantly feels, his breath catching in his throat.

He’s not sure if his belief that their relationship was going to be ended was a belief that Steve hated him as so much as a desire _for_ Steve to hate him, he realizes now, because if he really thinks about it, Steve’s looked at him this way damn near close to every day, though usually he’s not as blatant about it. For every day for these past two months or so, Steve’s put the two of them—Tony and Peter—before everything else, showing them more devotion and care than Tony really thought himself deserving of. This look is nothing new—in fact, if he digs deeper, this look stretches _far_ back before the events of two months ago—the only thing that’s new is the fact that Tony can _see_ it, and it’s as terrifying as it is thrilling. No one’s ever looked at him like this before in his life, not the way Steve does, with so much adoration and reverence, and in that moment, Tony’s not sure if there’s actually a world beyond this oversized bed now, with his two most treasured people close.

“He came in just after you fell asleep,” Steve informs him with a soft smile, snapping him out of his head, “He wanted to make sure you were okay. He was worried.” He looks at Peter, and the softness only intensifies. “And, also, bossy. Very bossy.”

Tony manages to just barely croak out, “Is that so,” his voice scratchy and his throat feeling sore.

“Very much so,” whispers Steve, moving in closer so that his face is only mere inches away, “So don’t be surprised if he forces you to stay in bed all day today. You were running a temperature, of all things. He was going to Vaporub you within an inch of your life for being a tad bit warm.”

Tony grimaces. “He’s a bit overmuch,” he confesses, “His heart’s in the right place, though. He’s just got major mother-hen tendencies sometimes.”

“Doesn’t help his dad fights crime for a living and is constantly in the way of harm,” Steve reminds him, “The mother hen inclination isn’t exactly without good reason.” He reaches out now, a hand touching Tony’s cheek gently, as if he’s afraid he’ll break him if he’s too rough. “We’re both here, you know. We’re not about to let you take on the world by yourself.”

Tony shakes his head. “Peter’s just a kid,” he whispers. It’s a burden he just doesn’t want Peter to have.

“Peter’s more than just a kid and you know it,” Steve argues, “He’s plenty strong. In fact, sometimes I’m pretty sure Peter’s actually stronger than the both of us put together. He’s sure as hell a bit smarter than we can be sometimes.”

“I have _PhD_ ’s,” Tony reminds him.

Steve rolls his eyes. “You _know_ what I mean, don’t be obtuse,” he orders affectionately, grinning like an idiot at Tony, “We’re with you, Tony. We’re always gonna be with you.” He chuckles softly, craning his neck to breach the final inches of space, pressing his lips against Tony’s own, whispering against them, “We’re with you, ‘til the end of the line.”

Tony’s not sure what to say for a few moments, enough time for Steve to settle back, looking a bit worried about the possible reaction, so Tony informs him,

“You’re _such_ a damn sap, Cap,”

Making the other man grin like he’s just won the damned lottery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to the reviewers of the last chapter: ilysm thank you all  
> to everyone (including the reviewers): i'm so sorry for what i'll be putting you through, emotionally, in this chapter and in the next. please don't hate me :(


	3. Please Love With Me, Steve Rogers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of this tale. The resolution of one story, and the beginnings of another being introduced. 
> 
> Also, sexy sex times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So thank you to all who've reviewed this fic! It means so much that this story, and all the others, have touched so many people. That being said, I apologize for taking so long to upload this; I am in my last semester of college (for now) and am verrrrryyyyyy busy all the fucking time. Unfortunately. Also, apologies for the unnecessarily large chapter, but I saw no clear separation point to be had - this was the only way it was coming up! 
> 
> I hope you guys have enjoyed the story. I know I have. I'm not capping the series off with this one, because TECHNICALLY Peter's stories will be included in the same series, but his stories will also be categorized in their own set, because OBVIOUSLY, Peter needs to be recognized as his own, independent being. 
> 
> That being said, thank you all so much, I love you all, and I'll see you on the other side.

It’s none too long until the two men stir the boy awake, because while they don’t have to be concerned about the time for themselves, they come to a quick remembrance that it’s still weekday. Tony’s not looking to have Peter miss any days of school if he can help it, so he ignores Peter’s cries of argument, all but dropping the boy into the shower that Steve gets started for him on his way to get him ready with a quick breakfast of some sort, which becomes instant oatmeal with raisins and honey, Steve combing Peter’s wet hair for him as he eats, earning the complaintive reminder of Peter’s age all the while, despite the fact that he’s not only put his t-shirt on inside-out, but also backwards. Peter tries to insist that he doesn’t _need_ to go to school, not when Tony wasn’t feeling okay, and they wouldn’t notice if he stayed home just _one_ measly day, but Tony’s hearing none of it, especially when he’s only got a _slight_ sniffle and a _slightly_ sore throat.

“I’m not on the brink of death,” Tony informs the boy as he shoves a fifty-dollar bill (the smallest he had in his wallet) into Peter’s hand so he can afford lunch, “So I don’t see a reason to miss out. Now scram, you motherless bastard.”

Peter pouts, but it’s all in good spirits, Tony can tell, his eyes twinkling as he says, “Hope you don’t keel over and die, old man,” all but running out the door with his coat on upside-down, struggling to pull on his backpack.

Steve’s grinning when he says, “I love how he’s still at an age to put on his clothes wrong when he’s rushing.”

“It’s adorable,” Tony agrees with a fond smile, “Utterly adorable.” He looks over at Steve, who’s looking at him with a look that Tony can’t entirely interpret other than its contrast to the smile that’s slowly slipping from his lips. It’s mildly discomforting, and wholly worrying, so he turns fully to the other man, unsure of what to do about it.

“Are we okay?” Steve asks softly, curiously.

Tony frowns, unsure of what he’s getting at.

Steve sighs. “I don’t want to leave you, but I’ll also understand if you need a bit of space. You’ve been through a lot in a couple of hours, Tony, so if you need the time to process it, I’ll understand it. It’ll be okay if you want me to go away for a little bit.”

Tony’s still confused. “Not sure what you’re getting at,” he informs him before asking, worriedly, “Are we breaking up or something?”

Steve looks horrified as he quickly responds, “Of course not,” seemingly aghast at the idea, “Why would you think something like that? I just wanted to ask if you wanted time to think about what I told you. To, I’m not sure what—grieve?”

Tony shrugs. “I think I’ve grieved enough for a couple of years,” Tony says slowly, considering his words carefully as not to give Steve the wrong idea about his state of mind, “I’m too tired to think about any of it right now, to be honest.”

Steve nods dumbly. “Right. Of course. A lot happened.”

“A lot is an understatement,” sighs Tony, his shoulders dropping a bit, “What happened was a storm of Katrina-like proportions—don’t give me that look, you have the power of the internet at your fingertips; I can’t keep guiding you to the answer when we live in the fucking information age and _hey,_ you cussed _three_ fucking times last night, allow me this _one—_ these _two_ , fuck—right now before I tell our friends, wipe that look off your face,” he ends with a laugh, Steve himself cracking a grin, “Point is, there’s a lot to sort through and I’m too tired to right now, so I’m going to do myself a favor and just go back to bed. I need a rain check on today.”

Steve nods. “Okay, then,” he agrees, but confusingly enough, he stays right where he stands as Tony walks off towards the bedroom, watching Tony go as if he weren’t supposed to come with.

Tony gives him a look. “Bed’s this way.”

Steve nods again. “I’m aware. Well aware.”

“Not in this room.”

“Okay?”

Tony frowns. “Do you not want to come to bed with me?” he asks.

Steve frowns himself. “Do you want me to come to bed with you?” he asks in return, as if unsuspecting of such a turn of events, “I kind of assumed you’d like the day to yourself after all. Plus, you know…” he shrugs sheepishly, blushing a bit as he continues, “I didn’t think you wanted me in there.”

Tony stares dumbly at him. “You were in there not even thirty full minutes ago,” he reminds him blandly, unable to come up with a less blunt way to say it, but it makes no sense—why would he _not_ want Steve in his bedroom? Steve’s a walking, talking embodiment of almost ridiculously unbelievable bounds of sheer and utter perfection practically not meant for the eyes of mere mortal beings, and for some strange reason, the guy seems content to be with someone like Tony, and while Tony himself may not _understand_ or, frankly, _believe_ it, he’s sure as shit not _stupid_ enough to pass it up. Besides, he’s in need to be distracted—why not let Steve be the provider of said distraction?

It’s been a while, since Tony was last rendered nervous about the notion of sex, but in all honesty, it’s also been just as long since Tony was so enamored with the person he was having sex with. He hadn’t felt this way probably since his college days—not even Pepper made him feel as excited, as nervous, as he feels as he walks down that seemingly expansive hallway to his bedroom, Steve only steps behind, the two of them silent as the implication of what may come (hopefully, the both of them) became less and less of fantasy and more of reality. He does his best to ignore his inner preteen, who hoots and hollers in triumph, their mutual dream of finally getting to bone Captain _fucking_ America, but he can’t quite smother the smirk of utter victory.

Steve stands awkwardly at the door, as if he must be invited in so that he many enter, watching Tony with a gaze that he can’t truly quantify, which is worrying because the idea of _not_ boning Captain fucking America wasn’t one that was sitting all too happily with his younger self.

“Are you a secret vampire, Steve?” Tony asks, eyebrow raised to mask the worry.

Steve smiles a bit, albeit awkwardly. “No,” he says, shaking his head, but none the less not moving from the doorway, as if stuck there, “Just not quite sure what’s supposed to happen next is all.”

Tony frowns. “What happens next?” he echoes.

Steve shifts a bit, obviously embarrassed. “I’m not an idiot,” Steve mumbles almost to himself, “And I’m not as innocent as you’d all like to make me out to be. I know _what_ you want to happen. I’m just not sure of the… the protocol of what’s supposed to happen.”

He can’t help but parrot right back the word, “Protocol?”, not as so much confused as he is amused now, because he can’t help but imagine them drafting a battle plan for sex. It’s a bit hotter than he’d like to admit, mostly because he can’t help but imagine it as some sort of foreplay (more accurately, Steve whispering all the dirty things he was going to do to him with his hands strapped above his head, _yes, yes, fucking_ yes), but he knows that’s not the way Steve means it, and he doesn’t need the rampant blush overtaking Steve’s cheeks to inform him of the fact.

Steve scowls (adorably, because of his blushing), “Look, I’m not as practiced as you might be, so I don’t really know what we’re supposed to do.”

Tony gives him a careful (still amused) look. “When you had sex,” he starts bluntly, because it’s easier even if the look Steve gives him clearly tells him he wishes he used some code word like _the deed_ or _the hanky panky_ or _playing hide the sausage_ , “What did you do first?”

Steve looks away, clearly embarrassed and wishing that he could just _die_ right at that moment, but still willingly answering, “We got drunk.”

Tony frowns just a bit. Maybe in a time long past (before he gave up the bottle, and probably before the bottle stopped having an actual effect on Steve) it would be a possibility, but it's not something he finds a comfort in thinking about, so as quickly as it comes to mind, he shrugs it back off.

“Well, that’s off the table,” he informs Steve, “Next?”

“God, Tony,” Steve complains, rubbing his burning cheeks with his oversized hands, “I don’t _remember_. It was a long time ago. We were just stupid kids and I was just worried she was gonna realize that she was a better dame than what I deserved. I was still the skinny kid with asthma,” he explains, biting his lip and looking _anywhere_ but at Tony, “and she was gorgeous. And you’re gorgeous. And I’m still not good enough.”

He stares for a moment before sighing. “We’re going to have to work on your self-esteem issues, because they are _rife_ with inaccuracy,” Tony says, shaking his head and realizing his own hypocrisy, “But not right now because you just called me gorgeous and little me is a bit thrilled to hear _Captain America_ call me gorgeous. Come here.”

Steve still looks awkward and uncertain as he says, “Tony,” but the man in question is more concerned with the lack of movement that the other gives in his direction, so he takes the lead, walking towards the statue-imitating Steve Rogers with determination in his stride, pulling the [over worn, hole-ridden, pit-stained, formerly white] t-shirt off over his head, tossing it carelessly to the side, greedily drinking in the look Steve gives him in response, which, despite the worry they still hold, speak of how he’s going to _devour_ Tony. And, considering that’s all he wants, Tony doesn’t feel much in the way of trepidation as he wraps his arms around Steve body, kissing him _long_ and _slow_ and _deep_ as he manages to work his [crisp, bright, sparkling white] t-shirt over his head, revealing the muscle structure that Tony already knows to exist but can’t stop the inclination to run his mouth over, his lips tracing a course down Steve’s jaw and the chiseled-out lines of his neck, leaving a small trail of saliva as he gently bites at the surprisingly supple skin.

Tony’s greedy for Steve’s kisses, but he hadn’t a clue how ravenous he actually is for his mouth until he finds it wrapped around his cock, his breath catching in his throat with a traitorously high-pitched whine as Steve’s tongue presses against the underside of his cock, his overheated hand pressing down on Tony’s pelvis to keep him in place. Tony can’t help but let his head thrash from side to side, trying his best to reconcile the fact that it really is _Steve_ who’s letting him defile the inside of his mouth like this, that it really is _Steve_ whose lips are constricted so tight around the base of his cock, that it really is _Steve_ whose teeth gently graze at the sensitive skin of Tony’s sex every time he lifts his head. It’s sheer and utter heaven, it’s only downfall is that Steve’s sucking a bit _too_ hard, but Tony quickly decides that it’s not the worst thing in the world, given that Steve’s allowing him close enough to weave his fingers into his hair and clench on tight.

Steve winces a bit and pulls off. “You’re pulling really hard,” he whispers.

Tony panic slightly. “I’m sorry… _fuck_ , I—” He has a bad habit, a _really_ bad habit, of hurting his partners when he’s really into the moment. Hair pulling, back scratching, neck biting—Tony’s a fan of all of it, but rarely does he remember to fucking _ask_ before he _does_ , which leads to a lot of arguments he really doesn’t want to have, especially not with Steve.

Steve shakes his head, smiling. “No,” he interrupts gently, “Pull harder. I like it.”

Tony’s eyes go wide, so wide that the man himself is sure they’re going to pop right out of his head. “Fuck,” he whispers softly, “It’s like you’ve seen my dream journal.”

It’s only twenty percent a joke, but Steve laughs anyways. He doesn’t give Tony enough time to relish in the sound, though, because he dives right back to Tony’s dick and it’s so sudden that Tony’s nearly _ripping_ Steve’s hair right out of his head and Steve doesn’t even swat his hands away, he _groans_ , and it’s a vibration that Tony’s not expecting of and has his toes curling, and he can’t help but wish that he’d gotten his pants down past his mid-thigh because he wants to feel the perspiration Steve’s got building up on his shoulders on the back of his thighs, which he’s sure is bit on the disgusting side but can’t really give too much thought towards Steve’s just found his balls and _fuck_ , does he feel _good_ right now, with Steve’s hand massaging his balls and Steve’s mouth working his shaft, and he has to close his eyes because if he has to see that _look_ that Steve’s giving him, which clearly displays his threat to just _ruin_ Tony right here.

He has to beg Steve to stop, only because he’ll be damned if he’s going to let Steve forget about his own want, which Tony is almost worried is one-sided until he sees the outline of his cock pressing against the fabric of his pants, Steve’s legs shaky and unsteady with sudden trepidation, reminding Tony that the man is pretty damn close to virginal, in the grand scheme of things, especially in the realm of gay sex, according to him, so when Tony says,

“You’re a fucking _god_ with that mouth of yours,”

He means every single bit of it, and he’s sure that he looks nothing less than as wrecked as he feels.

Steve blushes, though with his dilated pupils, the embarrassment can’t outshine his hunger, not bothering to respond with words as he presses a forceful, sloppy kiss against Tony’s mouth, saliva dripping down their chins as his tongue forces its way into Tony’s more-than-accepting mouth, letting Steve press him back into the pillows as he stretches out his body atop of his own, the feel of the scratchy line of pubic hair pressing against his own stomach making him tremble in anticipation. He opens up his legs for him, allowing the soft cloth of sweatpants to press against his naked, aching cock, wrenching a groan from him. His fingers find their way back into Steve’s hair as the man attacks his collarbone, nipping and licking and kissing and sucking at the skin into flowering bruises, Steve’s hands pressing down on his hips, a tacky string of pre-cum connecting the head of his cock to Steve’s hard abdomen, and he’d be embarrassed if it weren’t for the fact that he’s kind of turned on by the denial, letting out a whine that’s equal parts for show as it is for actual frustration.

Tony’s flexible when it comes to sex, not really caring if he’s top or bottom or what’s he asked to do or have done to him, but he can’t help but feel a thrill of excitement when Steve asks him if, this first time, Tony can lead the way, allowing the smaller man to turn them so that Steve’s now on his back, uncertainty radiating through the arousal, breath catching audibly in his throat as Tony carefully touches him, his palms running slowly down the contours of Steve’s torso.

“You trust me?” Tony asks him.

“With my life,” Steve responds automatically.

It doesn’t take long to work Steve open. Sure, at first, Steve goes so tense that Tony’s almost sure that he’ll break his finger with the contraction (which Tony can only assume would make for a funnier story than it would an arousing experience, considering the fact that he can’t be sure his erection would persist if he got his finger crushed in another man’s sphincter, no matter _how_ attractive he found said man), initially surprised by how well cleaned-out Steve is and filing it away for a future topic of conversation before he focuses on coaxing the man into relaxation, because, as he so aptly puts, “This isn’t going to be a whole lot of fun for either of us if you snap my finger in two,” which Steve apparently agrees with as he relaxes just enough for Tony to pull out the finger just a bit.

He rubs the back of Steve’s bared right thigh gently, mumbling softly to the man about how well he’s doing, and Steve, for his part, damn near _preens_ at the praise, his cock leaking onto his stomach (and, admittedly, the idea that Steve might have a praise kink is threatening to wreck his patience and makes him just want to take him before he’s ready). Tony kisses at the inside of Steve’s thigh as he works, slowly stretching and torturing the other man, watching him come more and more unraveled as he does frustrated, his hips moving to match Tony’s motions. By this point, Tony knows he’s more than ready, stretching him still with more than four fingers, but he’s fascinated by the wanton expression Steve has on his face; the tightly clenched jaw and the blown-out pupils, so much so that he’s actually kind of surprised when Steve cries out suddenly, his cock dribbling with his release, his body shaking with an apparent weight of the orgasm that hits him.

“ _Tony_ ,” he groans out, “ _Fuck me already_.”

Tony doesn’t argue, doesn’t speak; his throat’s too dry from the guttural voice Steve’s just used, removing his fingers and grabbing more lube from where he’s left it upon the nightstand, trying to slick himself up quickly so he can find a similar release. Steve watches him all the while, with bleary eyes that don’t match up with the focus he apparently has, his cock barely losing any hardness before it’s back to an angry red color, twitching impatiently against Steve’s abdomen.

Tony is gentle when he guides himself into the heat that is the inside of Steve, moving slowly into him despite the desire he’s barely suppressing to just plunge in one go; his hands pressing into Steve’s hips as his head rolls back in ecstasy. He’s sure his fingers are ripping into Steve’s skin, just as he’s sure the hands Steve’s probably not even fully aware he has on his ass are going to leave more bruises, but he minds neither as he bottoms out, fully seated within him and wanting to cry from the sheer magnitude of it all, dimly aware of the surprise he feels that he doesn’t immediately just lose it right then and there. He can’t help but feel sudden pride when he finds himself able to pull out almost all the way before snapping back in, his thrusts accentuated by Steve’s cries, because it’s _him_ who’s making Steve cry out this way, no one else.

“You’re doing so good,” he mumbles into Steve’s skin when he presses their chests together, one hand remaining on Steve’s hip while the other pressed into the mattress for leverage, “So damned good, Steve.”

Steve trembles under the weight of the praise, making the idea of a praise kink all the more real as he jerks his hips in time with Tony’s, mumbling damn near unintelligible words of sheer adoration for Tony as he’s fucked. Tony sucks harshly at Steve’s shoulder, knowing he’s none too far away from losing it and wanting to mark him before he does, fully aware that the mark would be gone far before his own disappear. He manages to leave a reasonably sized, and easy enough to hide, hickey before he loses it, biting _hard_ into Steve’s shoulder as he releases inside of him like he’s always dreamed about doing, lost in the sound of Steve’s cries and the feel as the muscles around him milk him for his orgasm. Steve comes between them with a moan, their stomachs sticky with the feel of Steve’s cum.

It takes a while for them to regain their sense of order, lying side by side in the ruined remains of Tony’s sheets, covered with new rips and tears that the man is _sure_ is the result of a super-soldier under the effects of arousal, so he’s more proud than he is annoyed of the sorry state of his sheets, because _he_ got Steve to do it, after all—what’s not to be proud of?

“Can we do that more often?” Steve asks breathlessly.

Tony laughs. “I welcome that idea, yes,” he agrees, looking over at Steve fondly, running a hand across Steve’s cheek to get the man to look at him, earning for himself a stupid, fucked-out grin from the blond that he just _loves_ , and while he’s not all too big on cuddling, he’s more than accepting of it when Steve wraps his arms around his waist and pulls him in close, Steve’s heavy head laying upon his shoulder. The warmth of Steve burrowing into his side is way better than the blankets, he decides, and far less expensive to replace (though he’s never been a man to worry about expense, truth be told).

Blissed out, he allows a rare silence to come over him, losing his focus in Steve’s soft humming and the lazily tracing finger he has drafting a mystery image across his stomach, staring up at the ceiling as he tries to regain some sort of semblance of his normal self. What’s just occurred is a moment that he’s never really hoped enough would happen, and his fantasies had nothing on the reality of it all. He wasn’t as ready for it as he’d thought he’d be, and yet, he can’t imagine it have going any better than it had—it’s a moment that he wants nothing more than some sort of image to remember, because his mind is great for remembering plans and blueprints, but not so much for these few, fleeting moments of complete and utter happiness.

“Come back to me,” Steve whispers at him.

“Never left,” he mumbles back.

He can almost hear the eye roll when Steve says, “You know that’s not what I mean,” all parts aggravated and adoring, and he can’t help the cheeky grin that arises in retort, which earns him a soft slap (for Steve, anyways) on his hip, to which he dramatically howls, claiming that he’s now been mortally wounded, leaping out of the bed to get away from his attacker.

“You bastard, Steve Rogers,” he grumbles as he looks at the new bruise that’s blossoming on his skin in the bathroom mirror, pretending to be more aggravated than he is, giving Steve’s reflection a glare when the man chortles. “You _wounded_ me. _Maimed_ me, even.”

“Don’t be such a baby,” Steve tells him, “You’ve had worse.”

“Yes, but not from my _lover_ ,” he gasps out, watching Steve tilt his head back and laugh, pushing off the edge of the unnecessarily large bathtub that Pepper had insisted she had as penance for her troubles, wrapping his arms around Tony’s trim waist and burrowing his face into Tony’s neck. Tony feels the cheeky grin that arises when he pretends to struggle against Steve’s hold, which is more for show than anything else, really, because while Steve’s got that whole inhumanly enhanced strength thing going for him, the hold is so loose that Tony doesn’t have to put in any effort at all, really, to get away.

Not that he would ever want to, he believes, basking in the warmth of Steve pressed against his back, closing his eyes to store the memory. His memory has gotten better, recently; probably because of Peter, if he’s entirely honest, because that kid grows up so _fast_ that Tony finds himself struggling to catch on to these little moments that Peter allows him to experience.

No, he doesn’t want to get away from Steve, he thinks, turning in Steve’s arms to wrap his own around the man’s waist (he’d put them around his shoulders, but he’d have to go on tip-toe and there’s no way in _hell_ he’s doing that to himself), burrowing his face into Steve’s collarbone. He can’t imagine ever wanting to be away from him, in this moment, ever wanting to leave his grasp, because this is a place where he finds belonging, he’s finding, and he’d have to be a moron to want to give it all up, he thinks. Steve’s perfect, too perfect for him, but for some reason he doesn’t really get, Steve _wants_ him, and Tony’s just selfish enough to keep him regardless of knowing what Steve deserves.

That’s what he thinks, anyways. What he so desperately believes. What so heartbreakingly gets ripped from him a little over three years later in a deserted Hydra chamber deep in Siberia, watching Steve take the side of his mother’s murderer, his eyes regretful but not remorseful as he tosses the shield down at Tony’s feet before turning his back to him, wrapping his arms around the man who killed his parents all those years ago, leaving Tony alone in the cold, his suit in tatters.

He didn’t want to be away from Steve, he’s reminded, and he’d laugh if it weren’t so unfunny, so miserable; the cold beginning to seep through the breaks in the armor. He didn’t want to be away from Steve, stubborn Steve, unyielding Steve, righteous Steve, he’s-my-friend Steve, I-can’t-let-you-kill-him Steve, but-I’ll-happily-leave-you-here-to-die Steve, his love Steve, his destruction, Steve. He gave the man more than he ever wanted to give anyone, including Peter, and he just turned around and threw it back to him for the sake of some psychopath. He’d given Steve his trust, his love, shared his life and space with him; given him more than he ever gave even Pepper, and just like practically everyone else he’d ever chosen to give his life to in this way, Steve tossed him aside once something better came along.

The cold is getting sharper now. More poignant. Nobody will find him in time, he knows: without the arc reactor functioning, FRIDAY would’ve already stopped sending his location. By the time someone gets here, he’ll already freeze over, he’ll already find himself finally walking into the embrace of death, and he finds himself kind of laughing about it, despite the agony, because he’s avoided death for so long, despite wanting it for a while back there, and here it came, courtesy of Captain America, his childhood hero. He had memories of cuddling with a Captain America bear—hand-stitched by his Mom—believing with that childish desperation that it would keep him safe from evil, that his hero would never, ever, _ever_ allow him to be hurt, and yet here he was, injured by the very man he had praised for years, left alone to rot while the love of his life walked away in the embrace of the man who’d stolen that of his mother and father’s.

Dimly, he hears a familiar voice call out to him, and until Peter’s face fills his limiting vision, he believes it to be nothing more than an imagining, but no, no, it’s Peter, clad in nothing more than the goofy costume he’d forced him to design, sans his mask, which, if Tony’s iced-over nerve endings are to believe, inform him is being slipped over his head. Wiring Peter’s installed in the suit include thermal insulation, something Tony knows he’s in need of, and he also knows that, if Peter could strip himself down and give him the rest of the costume to wear, he would.

“You should’ve told someone where you were going, you idiot,” he blubbers at him, literally _blubbers_ , because Peter’s crying so hard right now, the tears turning to ice upon his cheeks, “You should’ve had _backup_.”

“You followed me?” he asks, or at least tries to, his vocal chords don’t seem to want to work right and all that escapes is ‘oo fommod eeh?’ which is, in Peter’s eyes, close enough an approximation, because he responds,

“Only by accident,” wiping hard at his cheeks to rid himself of his frozen tears, his body trembling from the cold that seeps past the insulation, glaring at Tony half-heartedly with those beautiful eyes of his, “You can’t do this to me, Dad.”

“Teee,” Tony fumbles out.

Peter’s eyes flash a bit before flattening out. “Took off when I touched down,” he responds, beginning to gather Tony up into a more dignified form, “Was apparently waiting for someone to come pick you up, like the cowardly asshole he is.”

“Da’z ore faddar,” Tony chastises.

Peter doesn’t respond right away, busying himself by pulling Tony onto his back, taking the weight on with not even a grunt; shifting Tony around carefully to put him into a comfortable position. He takes great care in his moves, knowing that a wrong jolt and Tony’s nerves, however frozen most may be, will go haywire if he doesn’t move the right way. Tony’s vision is still skewed, off-kilter, and all he can do is hope that it’s not permanent, but he doesn’t give it all that much thought, because he can feel the sense of betrayal that radiates off Peter, who got tangled up into a fight that wasn’t his but affected him the most, who found himself without the luxury, suddenly, to be a sixteen-year-old boy.

“He’s not my father,” Peter finally says, decision as heavy in his voice as the hurt is evident, “I’ve only got one.”

And, if there is a bigger travesty to come out this whole mess, Tony can’t see it, and it just wrecks him, because it’s one thing for him to lose a love—it’s entirely different for his son to lose yet another parent. It’s something he wanted to spare him of, save him the pain of, and yet, here he found himself; a catalyst in the destruction of the small family Peter found himself, finding himself shouldered with pain like no other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2/27/17: I was just responding to a review and I'd like you all to read it to clear up any misunderstandings you've had in the case of Steve's character. The comment made is not important; I would like simply to read the response, which is as follows (essentially):
> 
> "… Steve is NOT the bad guy, in any of this. That is not the idea I've put forth, not the perspective I have; it is actually just what you guys have interpreted. The stories are written to represent in-the-moment feelings, and yes, primarily, the bulk of emotion comes into Tony's POV, so I can understand why you'd find an assumption of Steve's guilt. The problem with writing in "real time," as I am trying, especially with only one POV at a time, is that some things must be left out, specifically the ideas and persuasions of others in the tale—i.e, Steve.
> 
> Steve is not a bad guy. For me, (and I guess this would be spoilers, technically), in the case of this story and the Civil War arc I am approaching, Tony and Steve both take their stances to protect Peter. The act mandates registration of enhanced, which for heroes like Spider-Man, requires information like a secret identity to become public knowledge, which Tony would be able to have some part in controlling the release of if he is to help the act's passing. But in Steve's view, because the act would further make public knowledge all those RELATED to the enhanced individuals, there is no way to keep it controlled once it's passed, leaving Peter in harm's way should he be forced to register, because the adoption would be placed in the public domain. For this tale, this is the decision I've come to in reference to Steve and Tony's views in the movie, and how it will play.
> 
> Not all those in love agree all the time. Not all those in love can move immediately pass such a big divisor, and I've made it a point to not only to stay as true as possible to canon, but as true as possible to reality. I do not push the idea of a storybook romance and I do not try to; my goal is to represent love in the real world. Neither Steve nor Tony are perfect, and I SO do not think either is in the wrong, which is the problem I have with the movie itself, but as I do try to keep it in canon; I had to write the last part as I believed Tony to feel in that moment. He will be angry, he will not understand. That's simply what he believes, in that moment, and that's all I can portray, because that's how you end the movie. But am I going as far to outright say Steve's in the wrong? No, because I don't believe he is.
> 
> As for Peter's last remarks, please remember that Peter is a teenager, a teenager who is forced to go through such an ordeal with no kindnesses upon him. How else must he feel, in the heat of the moment? I have been angry with my own parents, sworn to hate them, and then go back to loving them the very next day. We all have. And, while this may be an extreme, admittedly, it is still this reaction."
> 
> Please do not go and try to respond to the reviewer. It's not necessary. But please do understand my (admittedly long) response and see what I've been pushing about Steve's character in this for over 3 stories.

**Author's Note:**

> So, hello all! Happy Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, New Year, MLK JR Day, Bubble Bath Day, Pharmacist Day, Hat Day, Houseplant Appreciation Day, Step-In-A-Puddle-And-Splash-Your-Friends Day, Compliment and Beer-Can Appreciation Days! 
> 
> (All legitimate holidays, in fact, the last two are actually today). 
> 
> Apologies for my exodus; my hard drive unexpectedly died just before Christmas (lost nothing of true importance; my stories are all on flash drives). I got it fixed, but I've been more than hesitant to use it up until now, which is why you're only just getting this update rather than immediately after the last update to this story. Anyhow, this is just a short story I wrote to flow into Peter's stories (working ever diligently on them) to kind of answer a predominant concern that I inadvertently triggered with the second story of this series: the deaths of Howard and Maria Stark, caused by one Bucky Barnes. 
> 
> A lot of you were worried about the fallout of Tony being told, and I tried to find a way to address it without going off-canon for Civil War too far. To be honest, this was a part that I didn't find of all that much import in terms of plot, but you guys saw so much in it that I got curious in diving into a point that I, myself, apparently made. So, thanks to you guys, I managed to write my first story essentially by request: answering as to how Tony might react. I tried to keep it as true to my version of the character as possible, which I hope you all can agree with and see validity in, while still keeping it as realistic as possible. 
> 
> So I hope you guys enjoy this story, however many chapters it gets split up into, and I thank you for sticking with these stories. I can only hope this is a satisfactory answer to some things, if not most things. I love you all, and I thank you guys for reading this series as so far.


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